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March 1, 2009 | 6:30 p.m. Vespers

Memory

Jocelyn C. Cadwallader
Pastoral Resident, Fourth Presbyterian Church

Psalm 25:1–10
Genesis 9:8–17

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The narrative described in Genesis 9:8–17 concludes the story of a great flood. A covenant is stipulated by God with Noah, his sons, and with all of their descendants and every living creature on the earth that “never again shall all flesh be cut off by the waters of a flood to destroy the earth.” The commitment made on God’s part to remember the covenant (verses 14 and 15) becomes the focal point of the biblical flood story. The author of this passage in Genesis included a sign of the covenant—a sign of God’s commitment to the covenant—as a message to the community that God had not abandoned them. God was chastening them: the disasters had not occurred because God was weak but because God was strong; God’s purpose was still unchanged and irresistible.

Genesis is a composite work that originated from two different sources, from two different authors, known as J (named for the author’s characteristic use of the divine name of Yahweh) and P (labeled thus for the Priestly Writer). It is speculated that J, the Yahwist document, was composed of ancient Hebrew traditions written somewhere in the region of Judah during the monarchy after the time of Solomon, meaning roughly the tenth or ninth century B.C.E. And P, the document of the Priestly Writer, is believed to be the work of exiles returning from Babylonia in the fifth century B.C.E.

It is important to understand that the finished writings of P belong to the period of reconstruction and that the tradition stretches back to the earliest days of Israel’s history. In the case of the passage I just read, it is believed that P can be attributed as the dominant source, as it is evident that the content of this narrative reflects the concerns and challenges that were faced by the community during the time of P.

How might we see that in this passage? The flood narrative in the book of Genesis is from an oral tradition. The general story of a great flood was known before to the community, and in order to focus clearly on the objectives of the Bible, it’s important to be aware that there were flood stories of the ancient world to which the Torah might have had access. For example, the most famous, detailed, and complete text of all the ancient traditions is the Mesopotamian flood story known as the Epic of Gilgamesh, which dates back to as early as the third millennium B.C.E. Modern scholarship has shown that the Torah made use of ancient traditions, which it adapted to its own special purposes. The flood story is a good example of this.

The post-exilic time would be an occasion when the flood story—a story known and already a part of the tradition—would be a good basis from which to work to begin to express the power, comfort, and memory of God. P is able to draw from a story that is known throughout the generations and to create uniqueness within the remembrance of God. In the post-exilic time what was needed was familiarity of tradition mixed with the message of a compassionate God. It was a time when the people needed to be affirmed by the remembrance of God. It was a time when the sign of the covenant would remind them that God had not abandoned them but was chastening them, that the disasters had not occurred because God was weak but because God was strong. And the tradition continues . . .

The message of the Priestly Writer is one that is not only for those in the post-exilic time. As it is a part of our holy text, we can understand that this message is relevant to every time and place, to every people and to every person. Our scriptures carry a deep and long mystery, which speaks to us even today. What we hear might be slightly different from what the original audience heard, but we still hear, and we hear God’s voice speaking to us, reminding us of God’s presence and God’s love.

This story describes a sign of a covenant. This covenant was meant to be made with all of us. And the sign still remains to this day. In fact, I remember a few years ago I was living in North Carolina and had gone to Kentucky to visit some cousins. On my drive back to North Carolina, heading south on I-75 and then west on I-40, I was surrounded by thunderstorms. I wasn’t driving through them in the sense that the rain was falling on me, but they were all around me, ducking over the mountains, drifting across the valleys, and there were five rainbows that I could see in the sky—all moving, each from a different cloud, each reaching boldly for the earth, each dancing all around my car. Even still, the bow in the clouds speaks to us, not just the post-exilic peoples.

The image of the bow in the clouds, appearing and reappearing throughout the days and history, is an important reminder for God’s people to understand that God is continually reminding God’s self of a commitment made. That’s how important we are to God. We are so important to God that God creates a sign that reminds us of God’s memory. The bow in the clouds—its purpose is not to do the job of reminding God; it is a gift to help us know that God’s memory is long and deep and cherishes us.

There is a message of hope shared with each of us, every single one of us, whenever the bow is placed in the clouds—a message that we are all included in God’s covenant. Not a single one of God’s people is left out. Just because I can see the bow and you can’t doesn’t mean that you’re not included as well. And just because you can see the bow in the clouds that I can’t doesn’t mean that I’m not included. God says to Noah and his sons, “As for me, I am establishing my covenant with you and your descendants after you . . . for all future generations.” All of us are included, all of us sitting here today and all of us not sitting here today. God’s covenant includes all of us. God’s memory includes all of us. Our age, our socioeconomic status, our employment status, our race, our sexual orientation, our gender do not disqualify us. Our level of stress or sadness or happiness or anger does not disqualify us from this inclusive memory. This economic downturn, this war, these diseases do not keep us out of God’s memory. God remembers all of us at all times.

The Lenten season, this season that we started this past week with Ash Wednesday, is a season of self-reflection, a season of penitence, of being in touch with our own humanity, our own limitations as human beings. On Ash Wednesday, we were reminded that we are dust and to dust we shall return. Our humanity is limited and frail. We are a broken people, a people in need of the remembrance of God. I don’t want you to be confused: this is not about devaluing ourselves. We do not journey through this season for self-deprecation. Nor is this season a time to simply acknowledge our shortfalls and brokenness and wait for Easter to come so that we don’t have to think about them anymore. This is an opportunity for us to repent; to recognize our limitations, recognize our shortfalls, recognize our mistakes that have caused pain not only for ourselves but to others as well. And it is an opportunity to seek ways to live more into the reality and joy of residing in the memory of God. This is an opportunity to appreciate the frailty of our own lives and live into the humility of being a part of the community that resides within God’s memory.

This week, I got an email from an acquaintance of mine. She is currently in college, has grown up in the church, and lives with her partner, who serves as a youth worker in the local Presbyterian church. She has had the blessing of growing up with meaningful mentors interested in her well-being, in her faith, in her health, in her. Recently they’ve learned that she is a lesbian. She wrote to me seeking advice and friendship. You see, the conversations they have with her now are different than before. It is a hard conversation not only for her but also for them. They have agendas now. Because we are so steeped in debate about homosexuality, it is no wonder that we, as a society, have forgotten that persons who are homosexual are no less human than heterosexual persons and that love is not a sin. It is hard for her to hear mentors doubt her humanity and reduce her to a sexuality. They have forgotten that she, too, is a child of God, even though scripture is used to start the conversation. But when the seven texts of terror are thrust upon the conversation among faithful people about homosexuality, the conversation becomes stunted and mired in proof-texted words taken out of context, making it difficult for their faithful hearts to reconcile. And in that process, as she struggles on her own with understanding her place in the scriptures, she struggles to not reduce their identities to hypocrites who wrongfully and arrogantly condemn. Her practice of “turning the other cheek” by not responding has made her culpable in denying her identity as a child of God, and their omission of scripture and experiences that speak to the love of God—the all-encompassing, fully inclusive love of God—has barricaded them from fully entering into relationship with her. Relationship is desired by both parties. They once knew and recognized each other as children of God. The society of religion has overwhelmed and the clouds have eclipsed our view of the bow. My friend’s faith tells her that she is remembered by God; she longs to be remembered by her community. The mentors of my friend also are confident they are remembered by God yet fear their beloved is not. Perhaps, the memory of God can be a better place to start the conversation.

In this season of Lent, before we boldly and inadequately declare which sins we find more egregious than others—in ourselves or within others—perhaps we should all first remember God’s memory. Nan Merrill shares with us in her book Psalms for Praying that Psalm 25 describes our prayer: “To you, O Love, I lift up my soul! O Heart within my heart, in you I place my trust. Let me not feel unworthy; let not fear rule over me. Yes! May all who open their hearts savor you and bless the earth.” The psalmist prays with us, “O, Lord, do not remember the sins of my youth or my transgressions; according to God’s steadfast love might I be remembered.” And with the sign of the bow, we know that God remembers us this way. Each of us, every last one of us, is important. And if God believes we are important, might it be possible for each of us to see that importance within one another?

We, as a congregation, need to follow the example of our God to remember our commitment to one another. To not only hear the voices of those silenced, but to be bold in voicing God’s memory, and to hold fast to the hope within the life-preserving covenant for all of God‘s people. We seek comfort in knowing that God will not abandon us. Not in death, not in unemployment, not in injustice. God will not abandon us. God remembers us. The hardships and prejudices that reside within us have not occurred because God is weak. No, God is strong and righteous and remembers us. And this is our time to live into the frailty of that blessed being. This Lenten season, may we seek to live into the humility of being dust, altering our paths as needed to not be ashamed, to not be self-conscience, to not be judging of that which is different or unknown, but to recognize that we are a remembered people, we are remembered individuals, and the covenant made with Noah was made with us and with all future generations. Have faith, brothers and sisters, that God’s memory and love shall remain steadfast as we step out of the ark onto new ground.

I will close with a poem written by my favorite poet, Mary Oliver:

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
. . .
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting—
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

Sermon © Fourth Presbyterian Church